Death and Mourning

Let every man in mankind’s frailty Consider his last day; and let none Presume on his good fortune until he find Life, at his death, a memory without pain.

How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry!

We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand.

And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos’d, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d, Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d; All murder’d: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.

But thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool; And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. O! I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue.

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave.

And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.

Why should I play the Roman fool; and die On mine own sword?

Husband, I come.

If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts, and is desir’d.

Go with me, like good angels, to my end; And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to heaven.

Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear To dig the dust enclosed here; Blest be the man that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.

Unrespited, unpitied, unrepriev’d.

Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than doth live.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

“Enlarge my life with multitude of days!” In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know That life protracted is protracted woe.

But thousands die, without or this or that, Die, and endow a college, or a cat.

Mindful of th’ unhonor’d dead.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she’s at rest, and so am I.

This piercing cold I feel: my dead wife’s comb, in our bedroom under my heel… 1

’Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone—man with his God must strive.

Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

_______ A simple child, 1 That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.